


And when the earth is trembling on some new beginnin'

by felinedetached



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blow Jobs, Daddy Kink, Dom/sub, Eliot Waugh's Canon Daddy Kink, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Quentin Coldwater's Canon Oral Fixation, Sub Quentin Coldwater, eliot overdoses so like tw for that, okay so he dies a couple of times getting there but he lives in the end, this was just soft but someone told me to write porn and now 1.8k of this is porn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-30
Packaged: 2021-02-25 15:01:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22458100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felinedetached/pseuds/felinedetached
Summary: This is a story that starts with two men laid out on top of an unfinished mosaic. It ends with them too, but it starts here; with Eliot’s smile and Quentin’s love and a flash of bravery that changes the entirety of how this particular timeline was going to end. It starts with a kiss, from Quentin to Eliot, Eliot to Quentin, and that kiss turns into love, into magic, into the beauty of all life, contained within this story. Let’s let Quentin tell it.
Relationships: Arielle/Quentin Coldwater, Arielle/Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, Quentin Coldwater/Margo Hanson/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 8
Kudos: 62





	1. A little of vision of the start and the end

**Author's Note:**

> > _When all the worst we fear let's fall its weight_  
>  _When the gyre widens on a window, wave breaks_  
>  _When St. Peter loses cool and bars the gates_  
>  _When Atlas acts a man and makes his arms shake_  
>  _When the birds are heard again and their singing_  
>  _And once atrocity is hoarse from voice and shame_  
>  _And when the earth is trembling on some new beginnin'_  
>  _With the same sweet shock of when Adam first came_
>> 
>> — [Be, Hozier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WjJUh8z-QL8)
> 
> This will be a three-part story, this first one dealing with the Mosaic timeline! I hope yall like it.

i. This is a story that starts with two men laid out on top of an unfinished mosaic. It ends with them too, but it  _ starts _ here; with Eliot’s smile and Quentin’s love and a flash of bravery that changes the entirety of how this particular timeline was going to end. It starts with a kiss, from Quentin to Eliot, Eliot to Quentin, and that kiss turns into love, into magic, into the beauty of all life, contained within this story. Let’s let Quentin tell it.

* * *

ii. Quentin never intended to do this. He hadn’t started the day thinking “today I’ll kiss Eliot Waugh” or anything. It had just… happened. And now he’s here, Eliot’s lips soft on his. One of Eliot’s hands is tangled in his hair, tugging slightly and Quentin  _ melts, _ moaning into Eliot’s mouth.

“Oh, Sweetheart,” Eliot murmurs against his lips, “you have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to do this.”

Quentin laughs, breathless. “Probably as long as I have,” he says. The torches are flickering bright and warm, the air filled with summer heat and all Quentin can think of is that time back at Brakebills.

Brakebills, with Margo pressed against his back, Eliot’s lips again on his, alcohol buzzing through his blood. Brakebills, with Quentin on his knees, Eliot’s hand carding through his hair, Margo’s legs around his face. Brakebills, where Quentin had found a home and a family and a life he actually wanted to live.

Brakebills, where Quentin had met Eliot.

“Mmm, I’m sure,” Eliot says, leaning in. Quentin tilts back, finds himself flat against the blanket they’d spread over the mosaic, Eliot crawling up over him. There’s liquid courage in Quentin’s veins, an attractive man hovering over him and he surges up, presses his lips to Eliot’s once more. Eliot kisses him back, presses him down into the mosaic until Quentin can’t tell where he ends and Eliot begins.

Quentin moans at the pressure, drags a hand up Eliot’s back, pulling his shirt up in the process. This is — it’s amazing, incandescent, but it’s not  _ enough. _ He needs skin to skin, needs to crawl inside Eliot’s ribcage and make room for himself there, tucked up against Eliot’s heart. “Eliot,” he gasps, grinds his hips up and turns his head to the side. Eliot takes his wordless invitation, and presses a kiss just below Quentin’s ear. He digs his teeth in barely a second later and Quentin moans again, arches into the pressure, gasps; “God, Eliot,  _ please—“ _

“Oh, darling Q,” Eliot murmurs, shifts slightly to rub his thumb light and warm against Quentin’s cheekbone. “I do so love it when you beg for me.” 

Quentin wants to beg more. He wants to do anything for Eliot; wants to be  _ perfect _ for him, in every way. “Please,” he whines, rolls his hips up again, digs his hands into Eliot’s hair, trying to pull him back down. Eliot pulls back, though; sits up and pulls Quentin up with him. “Eliot,” Quentin says, but Eliot interrupts him — shushes him softly, a finger pressed against his lips.

“The first time I fuck you,” Eliot says, “will not be outside on the ground.” He stands up, wraps a hand around Quentin’s wrist to help him up, and leads him towards the cottage. Quentin goes, dazed. His lips are tingling, and Quentin raises his hand, presses his fingers to his lips. His cheeks ache and Quentin realises with a start that he’s  _ smiling, _ bright and happy and entirely unconsciously. 

He thinks that if Eliot would let him, he could kiss Eliot forever.

And Eliot might let him, because the next thing he knows, he’s being pinned to the inside of their door, Eliot’s hands in his hair and lips on his. 

“Fuck, Quentin,” he says, catches Quentin’s hand and brings it to his lips. “You’re too distracting.” He drags Quentin’s hand along his face, looks up from under his eyelashes and Quentin is  _ gone, _ fallen hard and fast for his best friend.

“Coming from you,” Quentin says, breathless. Eliot’s gorgeous, always has been. He was a distraction from the moment Quentin saw him on the Brakebills sign, and that hasn’t changed throughout the time they’ve known each other. Eliot laughs at that, face open in a way that Quentin doesn’t think he’s ever seen before. It changes everything about him, and Quentin stares, awestruck. He barely even notices that Eliot’s started walking backwards, pulling Quentin with him towards the bed.

“My darling Q,” he says, soft and sweet and warm in a way that makes Quentin melt inside, “If I have to prove you’re attractive enough to distract me…” he pauses, shoves Quentin back onto the bed and climbs up over him to straddle his hips. “I absolutely will.” Eliot leans over, rolls his hips down and Quentin starts out of his surprise to moan, dig his fingers into Eliot’s hair and pull him down into a kiss.

Eliot laughs against his lips, bright and happy and open again, before he pulls back up and starts to work at the tie of Quentin’s shirt. He loosens it quickly, shoves it up towards Quentin’s shoulders and latches onto the newly exposed skin of Quentin’s stomach.

“Fuck,  _ Eliot!” _ Quentin arches up, pushes his chest into Eliot’s talented,  _ talented _ mouth. Eliot smirks against his ribs and  _ bites. _ Sensation sparks through Quentin’s skin, bright and harsh and beautiful as a falling star. It’s a rush, and he thinks that if Eliot wasn’t there straddling his hips and holding him down, he’d be washed away by each wave.

Eliot seems to enjoy it, though — enjoy how he writhes, pathetic, too consumed by his own pleasure to even think about giving back. Quentin hates that he’s so passive, so  _ selfish, _ refusing to help Eliot obtain the pleasure he’s giving. So—

“Eliot,” he says again, ignores how his shirt bunches under his arms and goes for Eliot’s buckle. His fingers fumble as he tries to get it open and Eliot shifts, sits up to give Quentin better access and stares down at him. He has this  _ look _ in his eyes, and Quentin can’t identify it but it still makes heat rise in his cheeks and warmth pool in his chest.

“So desperate,” Eliot marvels, shoving Quentin’s hands away and dealing with his own buckle with the kind of dramatic efficiency he has with all things. “Do you really want my cock in your mouth again that badly?”

Quentin doesn’t remember much about that night — just flashes, sensation more than images — but that—

Oh, yes. They definitely did that. Saliva pools in Quentin’s mouth just remembering it and Eliot laughs, pulls his dick from his pants and says, “We can arrange that.”

Eliot stands up, drops his pants and pulls his shirt up over his head, quick and efficient and elegant in a way Quentin will never be. But Quentin doesn’t care about that — not right now, not as he slides onto the floor, pulls his bunched up shirt off and looks up. Eliot’s whole face softens as he looks down, and he sits on the side of the bed, spreading legs and beckoning Quentin between them. It’s easy to go, to follow the instructions he’s been given and open his mouth, his throat, until he can let Eliot slide straight in.

Eliot lets out a shocked moan, like Quentin hadn’t done that last time, which— it’s a damn shame if he hadn’t because the noise Eliot made is one he is never going to forget. It’s not like this is his first time sucking dick — this is something that Quentin’s always really enjoyed about sex, the heavy feeling of someone pressing down on his tongue, stretching his mouth open until he aches with it — so he hums around it, enjoys the noises Eliot makes; how he pulls at Quentin’s hair, trying to stop himself from thrusting in further.

_ “Jesus,” _ Eliot says, tugs on Quentin’s hair until he moans around Eliot’s dick, “god, Q, how are you so  _ good _ at this?”

Quentin doesn’t pull off; doesn’t even try to answer. Instead, he takes Eliot  _ deeper, _ as deep as he can go. Eliot’s  _ big, _ so big that Quentin gets a hand up, wraps it around what won’t fit and hums again, draws back and plays around the head with his tongue. He wants to be good for Eliot, wants to show him that he’s  _ good _ at this, that he  _ wants _ this.

(There’s a small, vicious part of him that just wants to prove Alice wrong.)

But Quentin blocks that out, focuses on the feeling of Eliot’s dick in his mouth, focuses on how he can make it feel not just  _ good, _ but  _ amazing.  _ He knows it’s unlikely it will be, but he can't help but want to make this the best blowjob Eliot’s ever had. 

“Fuck,  _ Quentin,” _ Eliot moans, rolls his hips up into Quentin’s mouth. Quentin hums, licks at the head of Eliot’s dick and twists while stroking the rest, and Eliot comes, letting out a shocked moan. Quentin swallows, pulls off and looks up at Eliot. Eliot’s looking down at him too, one hand still tangled in Quentin’s hair and the other with a fistful of the quilt. He’s sweaty and shaky, but he still smiles at Quentin and cards his hand through his hair. “Jesus, Q,” Eliot says, leaning down. He cups Quentin’s face, drags his thumb back and forth along Quentin’s cheekbone. “C’mon.”

Quentin rocks backwards and clambers up, wincing at how his knees ache from the wooden floor. He relaxes on the bed, leaning into Eliot who smiles, carding a hand through his hair. “Now it’s your turn,” Eliot says, reaching down to unbuckle Quentin’s belt. He does it easily, slides the belt out and pushes down Quentin’s pants, reaching into them to grab his dick. Quentin gasps, arches into it and moans quietly, his nerves lighting up like fireworks. He grabs at Eliot’s wrist, his shoulder, anything to hold on to.

“See, I would blow you,” Eliot says conversationally, twisting his wrist on the upstroke, “but I kind of want to kiss you senseless right now.”

_ “Please,” _ Quentin gasps, lets go of Eliot’s wrist to tangle his hand in Eliot’s hair. He pulls him in, crashes his lips against Eliot in a desperate kiss — one full of crashing teeth and split lips. Eliot traces his teeth with his tongue, twists his wrist again and Quentin tries to somehow get  _ closer, _ crawling into Eliot’s lap.

“Good boy,” Eliot murmurs and Quentin comes with a gasp, Eliot’s words twisting something deep in his stomach.

_ “Fuck,” _ he says, breathless with the force of it. “Jesus, Eliot—“

“That’s something to explore,” Eliot says mildly, licking Quentin’s come off his fingers. Quentin moans again at the sight, throwing his forearm over his eyes. Eliot snickers, and nudges Quentin’s thigh. “C’mon, Q, budge up. Sleep time.”

Quentin groans, but shifts as asked. Eliot settles in behind him, tangles their legs together and nuzzles into Quentin’s hair. It’s soft and warm and safe, and Quentin finds himself drifting off easier than he ever has before.

The next morning, he wakes with Eliot’s arm heavy over his waist. The bed is warm, Eliot even warmer and Quentin sighs, relaxes into the hold. He feels  _ safe. _

* * *

iii. They spend most of their time on the mosaic, but Quentin doesn’t think that either of them were built to do the same thing over and over again. It’s the repetition, day after day of organising patterns, and it’s like they’ve broken the floodgates wide open, because the instant Eliot gets bored, he’s leaning up against Quentin, lips pressed to the back of Quentin’s neck.

“Q,” he says, slipping a hand under Quentin’s shirt, dragging it slowly up his chest. Quentin sighs, tries to relax into it — he really does; he likes Eliot, and it  _ feels good _ — but there’s still that creeping anxiety, the feeling that Eliot’s only here because Quentin’s the only guy around. 

“Eliot,” Quentin replies, hesitates. “Um, so—“

“Save the overthinking for the puzzle, yeah?” Eliot says, shifting around to look at him. He cups Quentin’s face in his hands and Quentin sighs, nuzzles into Eliot’s palm. “We both want this. Isn’t that enough?”

Maybe, Quentin thinks, it just might be.

* * *

iv. Arielle is perfect. She’s sweet and kind, and when she kisses Quentin she tastes like the peaches she always brings with her to the mosaic. Quentin is in love, the same way he’s in love with Eliot, the same way he had once loved Alice. His heart is full, his life even more so, and even though they’re over 50 years in the past and stuck on a quest with no ending in sight, Quentin thinks that maybe, if it wasn’t so essential to get this quest done, he could live out the rest of his life here.

Live out the rest of his life with Arielle and Eliot and the mosaic on the ground, with the small garden out back and the beautiful woods surrounding the cottage. 

So when Arielle arrives at the cottage one day, tosses Eliot a peach and then asks Quentin to marry him, he agrees. “You’ll have to put up with Eliot too, though,” Quentin says, ignoring Eliot’s offended “ _ Hey!”. _

“I can live with that,” Arielle says, grinning.

* * *

v. Teddy’s birth was the only thing that could have possibly made this timeline brighter. Quentin’s almost fourty, with a wife and a husband and a kid, and he feels lighter than he has in decades. He’s almost fourty, has lasted a lot longer in life than he’d ever thought he would, and watching as Eliot holds Teddy in his arms, smiling softly; as Arielle leans against the cottage door, smiling in that soft way she does when she’s looking at them. 

They’re still working on the puzzle, still need to solve it, but Quentin doesn’t hate it the same way he had when they’d first arrived. This puzzle has given him a life and a family, and he can’t help but be grateful for that.

* * *

vi. Arielle dies.

* * *

vii. Teddy leaves.

* * *

viii. Eliot falls asleep one day, in his chair by the mosaic, and never wakes back up.

* * *

ix. Maybe it ends like this: with Eliot twelve years gone and Arielle fourty; Teddy travelling fillory with his wife and children; Quentin alone at a finished mosaic, keyless but fulfilled.

He sends a wedding basket to future High King Margo, and with that done, waits for the beginning of a time where he won’t remember his own sacrifice.

It ends like this: Quentin dies a peaceful death, but also a lonely one. He dies secure in the knowledge that his son has outlived him, and sad in the knowledge that he outlived both his husband and his wife. 

Quentin Coldwater dies happy, and this is how his death was always supposed to be.

* * *

x. “Wait!” Margo yells, and Quentin watches as Eliot’s hand slips, turns with him to see the impossible — Margo, both keys in hand, one missing from Eliot’s somehow back from Fillory in a magicless world. She’s dirty, panting, but still one of the most regal people Quentin’s ever seen. “You bitches looking for these?” She says, and—

An entire timeline shatters from existence, and latches onto the nearest stable point—

Teddy flickers from existence and then flickers back in, staring down at his hands, solid as they’ve always been—

And Eliot and Quentin remember a timeline they’ve never lived, sitting under the flowered arch of their best friend’s wedding.

“Peaches and plums,” Eliot says, and suddenly Quentin is laughing, because despite all the heartbreak and pain—

“Fifty years,” he says, “who gets proof of concept like that?”

And Eliot surges forward, cups Quentin’s face in his hands and kisses him until he is breathless. 


	2. I don't wanna be here anymore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe this is a story that starts the instant Eliot Waugh sees Quentin Coldwater enter the Physical Kids’ Cottage, or maybe it is a story that starts well after that and this is just the prequel. Either way, Quentin meets Eliot when he makes his way across the crowded floor of the cottage and hands him something vividly blue and sharply alcoholic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> > _Baby take me back to New York City_   
>  _Where the stars don't ever see me_   
>  _I can hide under the scenery of a saturated sky_   
>  _Share some conjugated meaning_   
>  _Watch the light drip down your face_
>> 
>> [— When You're Gone, VÉRITÉ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ndMQ062h0-s)
> 
> This song doesn't actually fit Eliot and Quentin, but I do think that one line suits this chapter! But here: take timeline one, ft Eliot's daddy kink and also the fact that I haven't actually seen any of season 5 yet.

a. Maybe this is a story that starts the instant Eliot Waugh sees Quentin Coldwater enter the Physical Kids’ Cottage, or maybe it is a story that starts well after that and this is just the prequel. Either way, Quentin meets Eliot when he makes his way across the crowded floor of the cottage and hands him something vividly blue and sharply alcoholic.

“Hello, cutie,” he says, drags his eyes up and down Quentin’s body. Quentin can feel the heat rising in his cheeks as probably the most attractive man he’s ever met in his life hands him a drink. “What’s someone as pretty as you doing here all alone?”

Quentin blinks, takes the drink and says, “My friend invited me. Julia? I think she got an invitation from someone called Margo?” He’s not sure, but the man’s eyes light up in recognition at the name ‘Margo’, so Quentin assumes he guessed right.

“Of course, of course,” he says. “I’m Eilot, third year, party host and professional Daddy. And you are?”

Quentin freezes, his lingering blush intensifying. “Quentin,” he says after a moment, offering Eliot a smile. “Quentin Coldwater. I’m a first year.” He takes a sip from the drink and swirls it around his mouth, calming down. The drink is nice, the sharp burn of the alcohol dulled by what tastes like cranberries and something else Quentin can’t name. Eliot interrupts his thoughts with a clink of his glass to Quentin’s and a cocky smirk.

“I figured,” Eliot says, his tone fond, “I’m sure I would have remembered someone as cute as you.”

Quentin’s blush returns full force, heat washing through his whole body. People don’t really compliment him — they’ve always gone straight for Julia, who’s gorgeous and bright and personable — so he’s not used to this, or the attention Eliot is gracing him with. He also doesn’t know how to respond, either, so he says, “Thank you? I think you’re really attractive too,” and then immediately wishes he hadn’t said anything at all. 

“Oh, you’re  _ sweet,” _ Eliot says, stepping closer. “I just want to  _ eat you up.” _

Quentin doesn’t know where the bravery comes from — maybe the drink, maybe the fact that Eliot started this — but he looks up at Eliot and says, “Then maybe you should.”

Eliot smiles like he’s just won the lottery, crowds Quentin against the wall and says, “Oh, darling, I’d be  _ glad _ to.”

They stumble up the stairs together — Eliot had yelled something at a pretty girl over by the bar, who’d replied something affirmative, Quentin thinks, because Eliot had nodded in her direction and grabbed Quentin’s hand — and Quentin follows Eliot down a hallway, trusting he’s being led somewhere more suited to… whatever it is exactly that Eliot plans to do to him.

Eliot pulls Quentin into what appears to be his bedroom — an elegantly decorated, spacious room with the most gorgeous double bed Quentin’s ever seen. There’s a bottle of — something — on the vanity, a shirt hanging over the seat in front of it. He doesn’t get enough time to take more than that, though, because Eliot shoves Quentin down onto his bed and climbs up over him.

“Oh, baby boy,” Eliot says, looming over him, “I’m going to  _ wreck _ you.” Quentin whines at that, pulls Eliot down to kiss him and quickly realises he is in no way in control of this encounter. Eliot slips his tongue into Quentin’s mouth, traces his teeth, leaving him breathless. Quentin moans, leans into it and wraps his arms around Eliot’s neck, trying to get closer. He’s known this man for barely half an hour but it already feels  _ right. _

“Eliot,” Quentin pants, yanking his head to the side to try to catch his breath, “God, Eliot,  _ please.” _ Eliot smirks against Quentin’s neck, sucking a line of bruises down it while working at the buttons of Quentin’s shirt. 

“Oh, darling, do you even  _ know _ what you’re begging for?” Eliot says, working open the last button and shoving Quentin’s shirt off his shoulders. Quentin doesn’t know — he doesn’t know  _ at all, _ but whatever it is, he’s sure he wants it. Eliot’s — Eliot’s kind, and attractive, and really good with his hands and  _ god, _ his  _ mouth _ — and Quentin doesn’t think he’d be able to hurt a fly. 

“Please—“ he says again, voice catching in his throat as Eliot’s teeth dig into his shoulder. “God,  _ El—“ _

Eliot sits up, straddling Quentin’s hips and takes each of Quentin’s wrists in a hand. “Darling,  _ darling _ boy,” he says, dragging Quentin’s hands above his head, “Daddy’s going to take you  _ apart.” _

He doesn’t know if it’s caused by Eliot’s words or the strength in Eliot’s hands when he pins Quentin’s hands above his head, but either way, Quentin  _ melts. _ His brain shatters into static, leaving him blissfully blank. It’s a sharp contrast to how viciously anxious his brain is normally, and Quentin wants to feel like this forever.

So he rolls his hips up, tests Eliot’s hold and strains his body up towards Eliot’s.  _ “Eliot,” _ he whines, and Eliot smirks, looking down at him.

“You want something from Daddy, darling boy?” He asks, shifting backwards and unbuckling Quentin’s belt. He slides Quentin’s pants and underwear down and off his legs, before coming back up to trace patterns on Quentin’s thighs. He completely ignores Quentin’s dick, instead sucking and biting his chest, slowly making his way downwards and leaving bright red marks as he goes. Quentin knows they’re going to bruise, likes the idea of it — of wearing Eliot’s marks on his body even after the night’s done.

But the teasing is leaving him shaking, sensitive; he wants to touch, wants Eliot to touch  _ him. _ Quentin yanks his hands down — or tries to, as they come up against nothing, an invisible pressure holding them to the mattress. Eliot smirks, sits up to watch Quentin whine and struggle half-heartedly. “Aw, darling, do you want to touch?” He asks, tracing more patterns along Quentin’s side. “Or do you want Daddy to touch  _ you?” _

“Please,” Quentin begs, rutting his hips up, “Eliot, _Daddy,_ _please—”_

“Oh, good boy,” Eliot says, delighted, wrapping a hand around Quentin’s dick. “That deserves a reward, don’t you think?” Then he  _ lets go of Quentin’s dick _ , and Quentin whines, worried, but Eliot just drags his fingers lower. He presses them against Quentin’s hole, dry and warm and says, “How about this?”

_ “Yes,” _ Quentin says, voice rough and hurried and breathless, “yes,  _ yes, _ god,  _ please  _ Daddy—“

Eliot laughs, warm and rough and does a series of tuts. Quentin gasps as something slick and wet fills him up. It coats Eliot’s fingers too and he rubs them against Quentin’s hole again, waits until he relaxes, pliant to push one in. It's an unusual sensation — new, but not  _ bad  _ — and Quentin shivers, moans, rolls his ass back against Eliot’s hand. Eliot takes the hint, pushing his finger further in then drawing it out again, dragging the pad against Quentin’s walls. He goes almost straight into working another finger in then, with small little thrusts getting deeper each time. He curls his fingers on one thrust, hits something deep within that makes Quentin see  _ stars. _ His nerves feel like they’ve been lit on fire, sparks going off like fireworks behind his eyelids.

“Fuck,” he gasps, shoves back into it, “so good.” Eliot laughs again, delighted and does it again, curling his fingers to rub against what Quentin is assuming is his prostate. Quentin arches, shouts; he thinks he begs, although he’s not sure what for. Eliot obliges, though; whispers something against Quentin’s thigh as he pulls his fingers apart, stretches Quentin to take a third finger. It aches in the best way and Quentin doesn’t think he’ll ever stop moaning. Or: he won’t at least, he thinks, while Eliot is doing this. While Eliot works his fingers deep and wide, gets Quentin ready to take something  _ more. _ While Eliot’s looking at him like  _ that; _ like Quentin’s something to admire and care for.

And definitely not when Eliot slides home with a groan of his own, embedding himself somehow deeper inside him than Quentin had ever thought possible. Eliot’s  _ big _ and with almost every thrust, he brushes against Quentin’s prostate, making his nerves light up like fireworks. He thinks he’s making noises — thinks that the shocky, cut-off moans filling the air are him — but he’s not sure. His vision his fuzzy, his brain static, and pleasure washes over him in waves. 

“Darling baby boy,” Eliot says, panting, wrapping his spare hand around Quentin’s dick, “are you going to come for me?”

“Ah—  _ please,” _ Quentin moans, torn between pushing forwards into Eliot’s hand and back onto Eliot’s dick. 

“Come on, then,” Eliot says, does  _ something _ with his hand and Quentin  _ is. _ He’s helpless under the force of it, back arching and mouth falling open. There’s a roaring in his ears, nothing in his brain, and while Quentin pants, tries to come down with his skin shocky and oversensitive, Eliot  _ keeps going. _ Each thrust punches another noise from Quentin’s throat, soft, begging, entirely uncontrollable noises that seem to spur Eliot on.

Quentin can tell the instant Eliot loses control, because he can suddenly move his hands again.

And Eliot says,  _ “Quentin,” _ and his voice breaks as he comes, buried deep inside Quentin’s body.

The next morning, Quentin’s expecting — something. He doesn’t know what. To be kicked out? To be ignored?

But Eliot brings him downstairs and they eat breakfast with Margo and when Quentin is assigned to the Physical Cottage three days later, Eliot presses that same drink into his hands and smiles.

* * *

b. Maybe the true start to this story is here, and everything previous was prologue. Maybe this story starts with Eliot’s death, with one too many drinks and far too many pills unable to work their way through Eliot’s system. Maybe it starts with Quentin’s mourning, Margo’s rage, Julia forgetting her own grief for the grief of those she loves.

* * *

c. Either way, Eliot’s funeral is extravagant. His family is not invited, but Quentin’s is — or, his dad at least. Quentin breaks down in the middle of his speech. Margo doesn’t; she stands firm and strong and meets Quentin’s eyes in the middle of her speech. Eliot was well-known — even better, he was well- _ liked _ — and the room is packed. Quentin’s glad, he supposes, that Eliot has so many people who will remember him as the amazing, gorgeous man he was.

Quentin’s glad, but Eliot’s still dead.

* * *

d. (It’s the next day that Jane Chatwin appears in Quentin’s dreams.  _ He’s coming, _ she says, but never explains who before she vanishes, leaving Quentin alone on the steadily darkening garden path.)

* * *

e. Maybe it ends like this: Quentin face to face with his childhood hero — a villain who he would never in his wildest dreams have suspected — calling  _ no further _ even as he accepts his own death.

Quentin doesn’t know the necessary spell to kill The Beast. He knows about but does not own the Leo Knife, and so he faces The Beast empty-handed, walking straight towards his death.

Martin Chatwin laughs, now a villain through and through. His trauma is not and will never be an excuse for how he treats others, and Quentin tells him so.

Martin breaks his neck.

* * *

f. Jane Chatwin watches as Quentin Coldwater fights to save his friends, and thinks of the old man at the Mosaic, who told her that he gave up his life for that key and then had given her it anyway.

* * *

g. The world resets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter three will be trauma healing and probably a lot longer, so I'm not actually sure when I'll get it done! I'll post it as soon as I do though. Thank you guys for reading, and once again:  
> — [The Magicians Discord](https://discord.gg/Cj8u9fT)  
> — [My Tumblr](https://felinedetached.tumblr.com/)

**Author's Note:**

> Come hang out in the amazingly enabling [Magician's Discord Server](https://discord.gg/Cj8u9fT), where we yell and cry and generally cause chaos.
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr [@felinedetached](https://felinedetached.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Part two will hopefully deal with timeline 1 in a better way than s5! Also, if I missed tagging anything you want tagged, just tell me! I'll remove it.


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